


Lords of Misrule

by inabathrobe



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/inabathrobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten days in December when Famine and Pollution met while traipsing across the twentieth century and two when Christmas came early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lords of Misrule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edna_blackadder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/gifts).



> WARNINGS: brief scene dealing with the Holocaust from Horsemen's POV
> 
> Written for the [Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2011](http://go-exchange.livejournal.com/139163.html).

1936

Pestilence gulps ever-so-gentlemanly at a whiskey and soda, his third of the night, as War makes her way through a glass of wine as red as her hair (and lips and other places). He himself has a gin and tonic. It is a scene out of eternity: they have done this a hundred times before. Sometimes, they change their drinks, but mostly, they don't. Just drinks, never dinner. Dinner is too much: dinner is an admission. Instead, they do drinks and sometimes each other in a variety of combinations (variations on each other but never on the drinks: the drinks stay the same) on crystal clear nights like breaths of pure oxygen in the lungs of a dying man. The venue is Pestilence's choice, although it is always a chance meeting. They never plan, but they always know. Tonight, the clouds are closing in. Perhaps, it will be a white Christmas after all.

Over their drinks, they chatter. They are old friends of a sort, or, at least, they go back some four thousand years now, which is a sort of friendship in itself, but the old debates are never solved and there are new plagues and battles and starvations to run over, tongues liquor-slick. They steer around the old arguments, but they are not finished with them. They never will be; they are eternal and impetuous. But there it is ahead of them regardless: the final act, played for an empty theatre.

Their awkward small talk is hampered by Pestilence puffing on cigarettes like a steam engine, the anxious chain-smoking of an addict. Much as Famine adores nicotine (and watching Pestilence at it does send a curl of desire rising through him like so much smoke), the persistent fussing of his lighting his fresh cigarette off the burnt-out corpse of the last leaves Famine on edge, especially as the ashes start to really accumulate and the patrons around them start to get testy.

When a proper brawl breaks out, Pestilence turns to War and says, "Was that really necessary?"

She shrugs. "An accident. But don't you think it's festive?" Behind and around them, the fighting, ancient thud of flesh slamming into flesh, continues. They are engulfed by it.

"Really in the Christmas spirit," he snaps back at her as he tries to light a cigarette off another butt. He can't; it's dead. He keeps on trying. "Fuck."

Famine pulls it from his fingers, takes the packet of matches from the other fellow's pocket, and lights it himself before placing it back in Pestilence's lips. They twitch under his fingers. "Out with it."

Pestilence says: "I'm retiring."

Famine says in a slender voice: "Oh."

"It seemed like the right thing to do with where things are headed. Modern medicine. Penicillin. You know." Pestilence stands up and slides several bruised notes across the table into the center. "No room for me anymore."

"Yes, there will. As long as I'm around, you ought to be, too," Famine says.

He shakes his head, not meeting Famine's eyes. "You'll go on. You always do. All three of you." He runs a hand through Famine's slicked-back hair, and Famine feels suddenly and painfully obvious, as though everyone who sees must know who and what they are. "Be good," Pestilence adds. He smiles, and, then, he's gone.

"Shit," Famine says.

War presses a hand over his. "Oh, honey," she says in her throaty voice. "Let me buy you another drink." He downs his glass and accepts her offer. By the next evening, he's on a boat to the continent.

1943

The air is filled with ashes and the soil is filled with blood and their bodies are empty. What they have wrought would have made Pestilence proud. Humanity has brought them to a peak of imperfection, terrible marvels reinventing each of them. Compared with this, the Great War was nothing: a skirmish between toy soldiers. They will see to it that their minds starve as much as their bodies do, destroyed and debased and riddled with bullets. What is good is gone. There are no clouds, only bomber planes.

They are transcendent.

Soon, the end will come. It is waiting for them, not so far away now. He surveys the once pleasant Polish town turned to the service of the old man, and as he stands there on the hill, the boy comes up to him for the first time. He thinks him human ( _sua culpa_ ), but then the boy says, "Isn't it marvelous?"

And Famine says, "Pardon?"

And the boy says, "The smell. And the ashes. Bodies on the wind. I did that," and a slick grin spreads over his face, and Famine knows him then. If Pestilence had the stolid iciness of confirmed bachelorhood, forever heartily middle-aged, his hair blanched early in life, then Pollution has the white majesty of youth, his skin smooth and flawless alabaster, his hair thick and curling.

"It's wonderful," Famine says, although he does not feel it himself.

The boy sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and looks into the dying sun, standing beside Famine. "I thought you'd like it," and he eyes Famine in a sidelong way that does not make him wholly uncomfortable.

1952

He doesn't see the boy (how could he?) until he is quite close, ghostly pale in the yellow fog. Famine would know him anywhere. The fog billows around him, clinging thickly to him and embracing him as though it is afraid to let go. The boy cocks his head and says politely, "I hope I haven't inconvenienced you."

"The States will still be there in a week," he says, sounding crosser than he meant to. It's true, though: America isn't going anywhere.

Pollution looks embarrassed. "I didn't mean to keep you from your work."

Famine shrugs. "Our work." He touches Pollution's elbow. "You can buy me a drink for my trouble."

A smile slides across Pollution's face, making it light up like the phantom nighttime glow over Paris. "All right. My treat."

Famine offers him his arm, and Pollution takes it, a strange expression stealing over his face for a moment. They walk arm in arm through the solid penumbra, Pollution leading. He turns toward a shadowed doorway, and Famine is struck for a moment by a blinding shaft of sunlight that hits Pollution, suddenly solid and real and painfully human. His hair shimmers golden, and his lips are a brilliant red, and Famine wonders at him, so unlike any of the rest of them. Then, Pollution ducks under the overhang and opens the door, and the light is gone, and he is incorporeal again.

Famine follows him through and finds that Pollution is lingering, waiting for him in the antechamber between stoop and interior, suddenly cramped into a few metres of space, Pollution's face only inches from his.

"You're staring," Pollution says.

"I didn't mean to."

"Do I live up to my predecessor?"

Famine splutters. "I knew Pestilence for four millennia."

"That," Pollution says, "was not what I meant. I've been here long enough to know what drinks mean."

"Then you'll know it's only a pint between friends," Famine snaps. Pollutions opens his mouth to speak, but Famine opens the door and, pressing his hand into the small of Pollution's back, pushes him forward into the bustling pub, saying over his shoulder, "Mine's a gin and tonic. I'll find us a table." Under his fingers, Famine feels Pollution shiver, even though his coat.

1961

He slips outside for a smoke, leaving the investors inside. The New York air is cold, and he lights his cigarette furtively, wishing he could keep his cold-bitten fingers in the pockets of his coat. Someone coughs beside him, and he looks up. Bundled up in his white fur coat, the boy looks out of place among the thin crowd of businessmen on smoke breaks in their sleek black overcoats. "Hello, Cruella Deville," Famine says briskly, trying not to show his confusion and pleasure.

Pollution huffs, coming to lean against the wall of the restaurant next to Famine. "You'd like the modern tanning process," Pollution says, his voice like oil slithering out of a drum. "They don't even eat the meat afterward." His ash blond hair is longer than Famine remembers it, inching toward his chin. He looks well, though, in his own pasty wasting-away way.

"Enjoying the States then?"

"Oh, yes. They're very keen. Hardly need my help."

Famine laughs, puffing on his cigarette and blowing smoke into the air. "They would be. I'm not having much trouble with them, either. Diet mania."

Pollution's long fingers pluck the cigarette from Famine's lips, and he takes a drag on it. "I'm secretary to an oil tycoon."

Famine snorts. "Can you even touch-type?"

"Yes. And plenty of other things, besides." He offers Famine his cigarette back, and Famine takes it, letting his fingers linger on Pollution's as he does.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Famine says, perturbed, even though he suspects that he knows exactly what that's supposed to mean.

Pollution shrugs. "I'm not one of the lads."

Famine looks over at him. Tall, whip-thin, Classically beautiful, dressed in vogue, eyes blank. He tosses his hair a little, conscious of Famine's gaze. "No." No, he never could be. He passes the cigarette back to Pollution. "Going to be in town for long?"

"Only a few days." Pollution adds apologetically, "He's mostly based in California."

"No chance of an after-dinner drink, then?"

Pollution shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm spoken for." He drops the cigarette butt onto the ground and rubs it out with his heel before returning inside, clutching his coat closer. Famine lights a second cigarette and breathes in deeply.

1969

The French disappoint her in the end, but they meet for drinks anyway because Famine drops by in the midst of a world tour and Pollution has been working on the continent for some time already. Famine watches War watching Pollution. He looks younger between the two of them, practically a schoolboy. War finishes her wine, sliding her little pink tongue over her lips, and says, "Why don't you get us a second round?", and Pollution obliges, probably because he knows they are going to talk about him and Pollution likes being talked about.

Before he's even out of earshot, War says, "Well, you're quick off the mark, aren't you?"

Famine bristles. "We don't have time for you to dick around."

"Mm, he _has_ got you going, then." She sucks on the end of her drink umbrella thoughtfully. "I think he likes you, though."

"Stop it," Famine snaps. "He's about five minutes old."

She shrugs. "Only by comparison."

"That's what matters, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know. —Do you like him?"

"Yes, of course, I do."

"Oh, good," Pollution says from behind him, leaning around Famine to set his drink down. His hot breath skitters across Famine's cheek. "I was hoping you might."

1973

The lights dye him purple and pink and green, colors shifting over his pale skin like his hands over Famine's crisp white button-down. He is impossibly young, and if Famine could get drunk, he would blame the drink for driving him to it. He does not fit in among this crowd, all glittered skin and gleaming lips, and it was never like this with Pestilence, was it? Pollution is sticky with sweat and makeup, and his arms drape around Famine's neck, and his lips are so close to Famine's, covered in dark red gloss that was tested on helpless young animals and comes in lots of plastic packaging.

At midnight, Famine kisses him. He tastes like cigarette smoke and river water and the memory of dirty London days, and his tongue slides across Famine's palate like oil on a river, and he is filthy and disgusting, and yes, this is what he has been looking for all these years.

When they break apart, Pollution wipes his lipstick off Famine's lips, and Famine says, "Come home with me," and Pollution laughs and laughs and laughs.

1975

"Are you following me?" he says when Famine stops beside him in the Met, his words echoing and too loud in the high-ceilinged silent room. He is joking, but Famine is: has been looking for him for the entire past year. He leaves a wake of destruction, but he does not linger.

Famine slips his hand into Pollution's, the first time he has ever done this with anyone in four thousand years, and Pollution squeezes it, his hand warm and dry, although he does not look away from the Dürer woodcut that he is admiring. "So what if I am?" He runs his thumb over the back of Pollution's hand, little circles.

"Didn't bring Red with you, did you?"

"No."

"Don't get angry. I was only checking."

1983

He is just washing his hands, about to go back to his publicist to talk about his upcoming book, when he hears the door swing open behind him. He doesn't look up until a hand touches his back, and then he starts. "Oh," Famine says, "it's you."

Pollution presses a kiss to the soft spot beneath his ear. "I recognized your coat."

"You look nice."

"I thought we might—" In the mirror, Famine watches Pollution's eyes flick toward the toilet stall.

"My publicist is waiting for me."

"She can wait a little longer."

Famine sighs. "Okay." It isn't as though he doesn't want this.

Pollution walks into the stall and holds the door for him, and Famine follows him in, flicking the lock. Pollution fists his shirt and pulls him into a biting kiss, lips and teeth knocking together, and God knows he won't be fit to be seen afterward. He grinds his hips against Pollution's, feeling the neat starched lines crumpling, and Pollution is hard, which is such a relief, such a fucking relief, and then Pollution is fiddling with his trousers, too damn tight, and Famine is fiddling with his buttons because he wants to kiss and bite and lap at Pollution's skin, and Pollution pushes his hands away and says, "Not here," and pushes him downward, and Famine runs his hands down Pollution's sides, and he is wonderfully slim, and Famine likes slim things.

He takes Pollution's cock in his hand first, admiringly, and then puts his mouth around it, and he hears Pollution's head hit the tiled wall behind them with a soft low moan. It has been years, years upon years, since he did this, and it had been different with Pestilence who did not find Famine in restaurant toilets and shove his own trousers down, so Famine could suck him off. Pestilence had been middle-aged and staid and sweet, and Pollution is none of those things.

Famine intends to find out just how far he can take Pollution into his mouth and remembers that he does not have a gag reflex and takes him all the way, pressing his nose against soft white hairs that curl over his skin like chemical foam on a river. He sucks gently, considering the heaviness of Pollution's cock on his tongue, and Pollution grabs at the back of his head and makes a few breathless noises and then forgets to breathe at all.

And, when Pollution comes in his mouth, no, he isn't sweet, and he tastes like acid rain and contaminated water tables. Gasping to fill empty lungs, Pollution says, "Spit," and Famine quirks an eyebrow, and Pollution says, "As much of a mess as possible. All over the tile," and Famine spits onto the polished marble inlay. 

He zips and buttons Pollution's pants and stands up. "You're disgusting," he says into Pollution's ear and kisses him, and Pollution whimpers against his lips.

1989

He nearly passes right by him, but the dying grass, starving for want of fertilizer, and the couple necking in the grass, lunching on CHOW™, catch his eye. Not far from them is a demure young man sitting on a bench and smoking as he watches passersby discreetly litter despite their better judgment. The sidewalk in front of him is covered in countless cigarette butts. Famine waves, and Pollution stands.

They kiss in Central Park to the fury of an elderly gentleman walking his wife's basset hound who calls Famine a cradle robber under his breath. The sun cannot burn through the winter chill for all it tries, so they determine to go for coffee ("Is that like drinks?" Pollution asks him, and he says it is) in a nearby café.

When Famine sits down with their steaming espressos, Pollution looks up from loosening the thick wooly scarf around his neck. He says, "Do you miss him?", and Famine is glad that Pollution waited until Famine had sat down because otherwise he would have dropped their coffees.

"Uh, you mean Pestilence?"

"Unless there is anyone else I might mean."

There isn't. He conveys as much through the awkward fiddling with the sugar on the table and the sipping of the coffee and the looking away, away, away. At last, he says, "What's to miss?"

Pollution snorts. "Very convincing."

"I wouldn't miss him if you'd ever stick around." Famine sips his coffee. "I thought that was what you were good at it."

"Only in my professional capacities, I'm afraid."

"Well," Famine says, determinedly staring at his fingernails, "perhaps, we could engage in some professional collaboration, then. Chemical-induced agricultural blights. Salting the earth. That sort of thing."

"Is that a proposition, Mr. Sable?"

"That's _Dr._ Sable, thank you very much."

Outside, acid rain begins to fall and makes a few nearby window-box gardens wilt and die. An eighteen-wheeler hauling potatoes across the country swerves to avoid a Honda Civic skidding on spilled engine fluid and ends up in the Hudson. That night and many other nights, they keep the fourth horseman busy.

Eleven Years Ago

He and Alison, his loyal personal assistant, stroll into the suite he has booked, a shared living room, a bathroom the size of a large bedroom, and two bedrooms the size of small palaces. He can feel her preparing to make a pass at him because he is, after all, a handsome man with too much money and he has just invited her to share a hotel room, albeit a very large one, with him for the weekend in Los Angeles. He has already decided to tell her that, no, he respects her too much for that when he sees the feet.

There are two very white feet sticking up over the side of the very blue couch.

The toes on the right foot wiggle a greeting, and Famine must be staring very insistently because Alison notices, too, her hand still on his elbow, her body still angled toward his. She tenses probably in fear, and he bothers to spend half a moment wondering before a soft voice says, "Hello, hello. You took your time at dinner."

Famine coughs. Pollution sits up, scrambling, none too elegant, and peers over the back of the couch, his pointed chin resting where his feet had been a moment before. Famine feels a sudden thrill at the thought that Pollution may be naked behind the couch.

Alison wheels on him. "Are you _expecting_ someone?", which is American for, "Did you order a male prostitute and forget to tell me, or do you just think I'm stupid?"

"This is, um, Finnegan Whitby. He's an old family friend."

"He and my father went to school together," Pollution adds unnecessarily. He slides off the couch and stands up, looking lily-lovely. He is wearing a white terrycloth robe, and it is slipping off one thin shoulder. "He mentioned you'd be in town, so I thought I'd drop by."

Both men watch Alison's eyes widen.

"How kind of you to think of me," Famine says.

Pollution crosses the room with an oozing elegance and kisses Famine square on the mouth. Famine kisses him back. It seems like a good idea. Somewhere behind Pollution, Famine's PA makes a noise like a dying chicken. Famine considers whether or not it would be inappropriate to untie Pollution's robe in front of her. He's sure she's seen naked men before, but he isn't certain if he's willing to share the sight of this one.

"Good night, Alison," Famine says.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, Raven." They listen to her stalk out and shut her bedroom door. 

Pollution giggles. "What did she call you?"

" 'Raven.' You'll find it's my name."

Pollution touches Famine's wet lips with oily fingers. "No. No, it's not."

Famine sighs. "To her, it is."

"She's wrong."

Famine pulls on the loose knot of the robe, and it comes undone. He runs a hand over the soft, bare skin of Pollution's waist and curls his arm around the boy, pulling him flush against him. "Well, you'll just have to remind me, then. Loudly."

"I do like noise pollution."

"Bedroom?" Famine asks.

"If you insist."

Famine puts an arm around Pollution's shoulders and steers him toward the bedroom before he can change his mind and decide the couch will do. Famine slams the door behind them, and then he is pressed back against it because Pollution is kissing him and sliding a thigh between his legs and his mouth is wet and red and plundered and Famine is starving for him. He yanks the bathrobe off of Pollution and shoulders out of his own suit jacket, struggling because Pollution's fingers are clinging to his upper arms.

Famine shoves him away and Pollution whimpers and Famine says, "You, bed," and Pollution goes. His fingers have burned through the fabric of Famine's expensive suit and the shirt underneath, but he does not care. He strips with a quick efficiency until he is left in nothing at all.

Pollution is watching him from the bed with hungry eyes.

He crosses to him and Pollution sits up primly on his knees and Famine tilts his chin up and looks at him for a moment. Pollution says, "Do you find it to be a religious experience?" Famine shoves him down onto the bed, but it does nothing to stop Pollution's laughter. His repose echoes the Pietà, but he has no iconography of his own.

Famine surprises himself by saying, "God, yes," and this ends Pollution's laughter.

"What?"

"You heard me," he says because he cannot possibly repeat himself.

"Oh." Pollution pushes himself up to sitting and brushes his lips, soft and gentle, across Famine's. He drops his gaze, unwilling to meet Famine's eyes. "Shall we?"

Famine ducks his head and kisses Pollution's neck, making a point to bruise it. Pollution's fingers trace patterns along the expanse of Famine's back, and Pollution settles into his lap. Pollution looks down at Famine and says, "We could have done this on the goddamn couch."

"Yes, but then Alison might have heard you."

"Mm?" Pollution nips at his lower lip.

"My name."

"Famine?"

He nods.

Considering, weighing it on his tongue, Pollution says, "Famine." He watches Pollution consider it carefully, move through a moue, and settle into a look of smug complacency. "All right." Pollution cups his chin and kisses him wetly. "Are you going to fuck me now?"

Famine can feel himself flush. "If you like." He runs a hand through the thin strands of faded blond hair and does not meet Pollution's self-satisfied gaze.

He presses his hands to Famine's chest and kisses him, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. One of his hands slides downwards and strokes Famine's cock firmly. He groans. "Are you hinting?" He feels Pollution shrug against him, his hand quickening, and Famine says, "Okay, okay," and Pollution shifts his weight onto his knees, and Famine fusses, and Pollution rolls his eyes, and then Famine shifts his hips up, and Pollution is slick already as expected, and Famine slides easily into him. Pollution shudders and settles himself back down onto Famine's lap, moving slowly, curling his fingers into Famine's thin shoulders. Famine presses a kiss to Pollution's chest, and Pollution says his name, breathy and light.

"That's not noise pollution in the slightest," Famine says, feigning crankiness, and Pollution whines, kissing his jaw hungrily. "Don't leave marks."

"I'll leave marks if I like." Pollution punctuates it with a final thrust, sliding home, and Famine grunts. Pollution begins to move more quickly, and Famine nearly laughs at him, but something in his eyes, the cruel glint that lingers there always, stops him. He moves his hands lower from where they have settled on Pollution's hips and grasps his ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He feels the boy scratch at his back in retaliation, dragging his fingers down as he moves over Famine's lap and leaving long red marks like perverse wings.

"Did you do this with him?" Pollution asks.

"No," Famine says, "never." They unmade the world, he and Pestilence, tore it down from its foundations and left it in ruins at their feet, but they were never like this. He presses a kiss to the juncture of Pollution's shoulder and neck. Pestilence would never have been jealous, but Pollution is more human than Pestilence ever was. He is an inborn impulse.

"Good."

Famine slides a hand between them and strokes gently, and Pollution says, "Famine," in a tone that says that he had best cooperate immediately, and Famine jerks him off with a steady and insistent hand and thinks to himself that sex with Pollution is more like a business negotiation than he is strictly comfortable with.

Pollution presses his lips to Famine's ear and says his name and bucks his hips, and he begins to melt, black crude oil oozing out of the pores of his white, white skin, which glimmers with the sheen of gasoline and glows with toxic radiation, and Famine kisses him and lets himself go, dissolving into skin stretched tight over bone and hollow eye sockets and stomach bloated and mind dazed by the lack of sustenance, and he hears his name called from far off, ancient and eternal. Six letters. Two syllables.

When he comes back to himself, he expects to be alone. He isn't. It's enough. He knows why Pollution has come. Now, they are all in the service of the old man, and the hooves of the pale horse ring at all their heels.

The next day, in a slim black car, he rides out across America.

Now

He has the common decency to hope that taking it like a man will buy Pollution time enough to get away.

Later

"Excuse me, miss," says a soft, elegant voice with an English accent. Nancy looks down at the young man who is trying to get her attention, sitting with a gentleman in a neat suit and a woman in a red dress (his wife? and is the blond boy their son?). She had been certain up until that moment that Table 5 was empty, but she must have been mistaken.

"I'm so sorry for the wait. What can I get you to drink?"

"A gin and tonic for me," the man says, his voice just as American as her own.

"Oh, I'll just have a glass of the house red," says the classic Hollywood beauty.

The boy smiles up at her, teeth glistening white in the light, and she wonders what he's doing Friday evening. "Which of the bottled beers would you recommend? Or do you have anything that comes in plastic?"

They are eternal and impetuous. It was only a matter of time.


End file.
